


Two Gin and Tonics Please

by genevieve_serdaigle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Ginsy, Lots of alcohol, Strong Language, Yes it's gay, post-war AU, sometimes these things happen, they're not alcoholics though, yes it's almost 1am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevieve_serdaigle/pseuds/genevieve_serdaigle
Summary: It's been a few years since the war and Ginny is totally coping just fine. All she wants to do is drown it out and try to forget. And then one day in walks the past in the shape of Pansy Parkinson, bad bitch extraordinaire. It shouldn't happen and it shouldn't make sense, but it does.





	Two Gin and Tonics Please

Ginny had seen Pansy the moment she walked in. It was hard not to, not when the girl in question was so striking.

She wasn’t exactly pretty or warm – she was all sharp edges and spikes, pale skin, jet black hair and heels as high as a pint of beer. Everything about her screamed indifference, coldness, altogether a kind of powerful _I don’t give a fuck_ vibe that felt reassuring. Pansy looked like she had her shit together, and it was oddly compelling. She practically buzzed with prickly static electricity – crackling the stagnant air with it.

Ginny hadn’t been to this particular pub before, but she’d been to many others like it. They were all the same: noisy and packed to bursting with drunkards, rowdy students, bitter old men, and creeps that felt you up whilst you were dancing.  She’d smile a little, swing her hips, drink a lot and work hard to forget.

Forget that she was Ginevra Weasley, warrior, and victor.

Forget that she was ex-girlfriend of the Saviour of All.

Forget that her ex-boyfriend had fought in a war.

Forget that she’d fought in a war – and lost terribly.

Forget what she’d suffered and endured.

Just forget it all, drown it out, shove it away and breathe again. It had been so long since she’d felt free and weightless and just happy to be alive and young. You could try and replicate the feeling with alcohol, drugs, and sex but none of it came close. Not that she hadn’t tried, of course. She’d tried everything she could think of.

It had been almost five years since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Since Fred.

Since Hell on Earth.

Shouldn’t the pain be less by now? Wasn’t this eddy of despondency and grief supposed to edge away, bit by bit? That’s what they’d said – time would heal it, space would make it all feel better and one day – one day – she’d be able to live again, be happy again.

One day she wouldn’t feel this twinge in her gut at the sight of black hair and dark eyes, things that seemed to go together with the charming, dangerous smile she remembered. That careful calligraphy inscribing soothing words and his face as he drew himself from the diary, sucking out her strength, blood on her hands, a snake in her mind and spiders crawling up her spine.

Ginger hair and a crooked smile and lifeless body.

Screams and tears and shaking.

So much pain, so much loss.

She downed her glass and the shaking subsided. A little.

Forget it all.

* * *

 

Pansy Parkinson was very tired.

She was tired of having to defend herself and her own existence – not that she made much of an effort to anymore, or indeed at all. She’d resolved to do what she did best: get on with things. She was working with animals – it was low-station with pretty poor pay but it was enough to get her going on her own, to not have to depend on her parents anymore, to move out (eventually) and finally have something that was all down to her, something that she’d earned without help from anybody else.

She didn’t need anybody else, least of all some filthy rich husband. She could manage on her own.

That didn’t mean it was easy. Oh Morgana, no. It had never been easy. There was still the graffiti and death threats left on her door, the insults and glares from strangers, the shopkeepers that sometimes refused to serve the likes of her and just the general isolation from a society that would never accept her.

Not that she cared, obviously.

What else could she expect, really? She was Sacred Twenty-Eight, a Pure-blood through and through – not there was anything she could do about that, as much as she sometimes wanted to and a Slytherin, and there was arguably nothing that she could do about that either. Were people really that blind to their own hypocrisy? No one would openly insult a Muggle-born for their blood or treat them like dirt for a thing they couldn’t change (especially not with Golden Girl Hermione Granger championing rights for the historically oppressed), but it was perfectly fine when the subject in question was someone like her.

Ah, but there was more to it than that. She was the one who wanted to give up the Boy Who Lived to a madman in order to save her one and only real refuge as well as the people she’d come to call family. That was unforgivable.

Never mind that the people who were really unpleasant were usually those who had never had to eat at the same table as Lord Voldemort, never seen their best friend, maybe something more break down and drift away, never felt the very real fear that had gripped her heart like a vice, had never actually picked a side but had had the choice to do so. They were the ones who claimed to be righteous but had never stood up for the Light side but could have done without serious fear of direct retribution, the ones who said and did nothing when the Carrows were torturing children – surely they were equally as responsible for that as she was? They were guilty of the same crimes! Yet she was blamed for it on the basis of one moment of desperation, one moment of blatant terror…

It was pointless to waste time fuming about it all.

It was what it was. She kept to herself mostly, sometimes she met up with Draco, Theo, Blaise, and the girls. Sometimes she went out drinking alone, like tonight. She’d find someone to go home with, someone to fill the emptiness if only temporarily. She was feeling reckless and maybe she’d drunk a little too much. She felt light and happy – or at least happier.

Maybe that was why when she saw Ginny Weasley sat alone, she made her way over to her. Maybe that was why she decided to start a conversation.

Pansy Parkinson was tired of trying to forget and let live, she wanted to burn and burn brightly, at least just for tonight.

* * *

“Drinking alone, Weasley?”

Ginny glanced up to see Pansy Parkinson, who stood over her with a strange expression on her face. Ginny considered the other girl – here was one of the meanest, snobbiest and unbearable bitches she’d ever met and yet, for reasons she could never quite explain, she said nothing when Pansy sat down next to her. Maybe she should have told her to fuck off, maybe she should have got up and left – but she felt kind of restless, agitated, just full of _anger_ because it wasn’t fucking _fair_ and how did Pansy have the fucking _nerve_ to sit there looking so unbroken, so calm when she felt like she was splitting open at the seams?

She didn’t hate Pansy. Merlin, no she was tired of holding grudges, she didn’t have the energy to hate anyone for what they’d done in those awful years – mostly, anyway. But Pansy was there and Ginny was angry and she felt that maybe Pansy could sense this, sense that she needed to get this anger _out_ , to _take_ it out on someone.

“Could say the same to you, Parkinson. Where’s your ferrety boyfriend?”

                “Draco?” Pansy snorted. “I have no idea. Probably drinking. Alone. Much like you.”

“And you,” Ginny retorted. “You’re drinking alone.”

                “Look who’s been paying attention.” The words could have sharp, but they weren’t. They fell short somehow.

“Where’s your green-eyed wonder boy?”

“We broke up,” Ginny replied curtly; “But you probably already knew that.”

Pansy shrugged. “I’m not surprised.”

“Why not?”

                “People change, Weasley. And you’re sat here, drinking – what is that? It smells like shit –”

“What happened with your boyfriend? Did he get smothered by the weight of his own gold?”

“Draco wasn’t exactly what I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?”

Pansy leaned in close, studying Ginny’s face. Ginny found herself slightly breathless. Their faces were inches apart, she could see the slight green flecks in otherwise dull brown eyes – the colour of dried and dead tree bark. The glint in her eyes, just at the edges, of someone who’d seen terrible things. She knew that glint, saw it every day in her reflection.

                “Let me buy you a drink,” Pansy said suddenly. “Two gin and tonics please.”

* * *

Her kisses were soft and like a feather on Ginny’s skin, delicate and light and gentle. It was such a contrast to the harsh image Pansy seemed to radiate.

It had been a long time since she’d felt like this – living for the present like she had nothing to lose was normal, this was different. It was so inherently different. The cool, comforting press of Pansy’s silver locket as she pulled them closer together, the slight teasing laugh as limbs and straps and cloth became tangled, and the sighs of pleasure as lips brushed together.

It was fire like she’d never known, the sweet, fulfilling kind rather than destructive.

She’d gone back to Pansy’s flat using the Floo, something about a good, aged bottle of cognac – _better than the horseshite you’ve been drinking_ , Pansy had claimed. They’d had one glass and then another and they’d started talking again, on Pansy’s trodden-down sofa (‘ _it’s vintage’_ ).

They talked about Pansy’s job (‘you have a job?’ – Ginny had marvelled), about Harry Potter, about how it wasn’t Pansy’s fault and no, Ginny it definitely was my fault and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, and Ginny still didn’t blame her, because she thought maybe she understood and yes, maybe she was starting to like Pansy, for all that she was mean and harsh and sharp… Pansy just seemed to get it – she knew how it was, she said it like it was, she was horrifyingly truthful about seemingly everything and she didn’t pull sickening ‘sympathetic’ (read: pitying) faces at her, or tell her that it was going to be okay, or that she was sorry.

No, Ginny got the distinct impression that Pansy wasn’t an apologetic person – but she still made mistakes, like everyone else. The more they talked, the more Ginny felt her suspicion and an irritating voice (which sounded a lot like Ron’s) recede. Maybe this wasn’t a great idea – not in Ron’s eyes, anyway – but Pansy was actually alright, Pansy was funny and made her laugh, Pansy was completely and utterly outrageous.

So they talked into the night, cognac deserted and forgotten, prejudice and bigotry left on the doorstep.

About how Pansy had kissed Daphne once in their dorm room and Daphne had gone red and they’d sworn never to mention it. About how Ginny had never kissed a girl before – and did she want to do something about that?

So began something secret.

* * *

Afterwards, Ginny would think in private that perhaps she hadn’t been as drunk as she’d claimed. Pansy would think that she’d definitely been as drunk as she’d claimed but why would that be a problem? If Ginny could like her whilst she was drunk, then Ginny could like her sober too.

And Ginny did seem to like her, they woke up next to each other after all, the sun filtering in through the curtains, the fresh early morning breeze that blew in through a crack in the window jolting Ginny awake. Pansy was (mostly) awake but refused to get up. Didn’t Ginny know it was eight o’clock in the bloody morning and a Saturday?

Pansy didn’t work on Saturdays, Ginny’s season was over until next year so she stayed and made breakfast. She wasn’t in a hurry, anyway.

* * *

One year later.

12 months of stolen kisses and late night dancing.

53 weeks of hands intertwined and bodies together.

365 days of letters on parchment paper and secret smiles in the street.

Ginny had a bounce in her step, a flutter in her chest and a blush in her cheeks.

“You seem cheerful,” Hermione had remarked.

                “I am,” she’d said, realising the truth of it. “I’m happy.”

And she was. Mostly. If it weren’t for the fact that she was falling, and falling hard for a girl who was mean and snobby and unbearable. It had been hard, in a way because she wanted to tell people, she really did but who would ever accept it? Not Pansy’s parents, it was bad enough that Ginny wasn’t a wealthy male heir, let alone a Blood-Traitor. She didn’t think her family would empathise either, and nor did she expect them to. They wouldn’t give Pansy a chance – not after what she’d done, not after the war.

Yet it was precisely because of the war that she’d even talked to Pansy again – it was because of the war that she was sat with Pansy now, snuggled on Pansy’s sofa, two wine glasses on the coffee table. It was early evening and the dusk settled around them like sympathetic armour, covering them up.

Pansy wasn’t one for promises or declarations of love. Ginny knew this, it was painfully obvious in all the words that weren’t said out loud. And Ginny was just the same, usually. This time, however, whatever it was between them, Ginny didn’t want to ask. If she did, everything might shatter. She didn’t want to hear Pansy say that this was only a bit of fun, a light distraction, something to fill the time.

Because to Ginny this was precious and it was something more tangible, more real to her than anything had been since the war. And it wasn’t that she needed an answer, a definition, a confirmation that yes, yes I accept you and I love you. No, it was more than she didn’t want the opposite – the _why ruin a good thing with a label?_ or _can’t we just burn whilst we burn?_

She would die before she’d admit to insecurity like this though. Pansy was the same way. And it was certainly stupid, but they were both stubborn and proud.

Until one day they’re out together drinking. It’s a bar full of people they don’t know (which is kind of the appeal) and they’re having a good time and Pansy looks knock-out and Ginny knows she looks fucking sexy, she’s borrowing Pansy’s dress after all and the girl has taste. They dance and it’s some kind of exquisite torture to be pressed together this close, to feel each other’s heartbeats and the sound of the bass as it resonates through their chests.

And then there’s this guy, who’s definitely drunk and definitely a dick, and he starts getting a little bit too friendly with Ginny. Maybe he thinks she’s more approachable than Pansy, or maybe she just happened to be closer. In any case, he’s grinding into her, putting his hands on her dress  – no, _Pansy’s_ dress – and Ginny’s laughing as she pushes him off and she wants to leave it there and ignore it and have fun with Pansy, but Pansy looks oddly cold. She’s glaring at the guy so hard even he in his state notices.

“Get the fuck away from my girlfriend,” she says, and she hexes him too.

The guy leaves, cursing her to Hell as he nurses his balls. Pansy’s fucking vicious.

“Girlfriend?” Ginny asks, tugging Pansy in close.

                “Obviously,” she says.

And Ginny supposes it is kind of obvious, and Hermione agrees once she meets Pansy. Harry is bemused but accepting. Ron… well, Ron never quite gets it, but thankfully no one seems to care about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. On the off chance you recognise this, yes it was originally written on fanfiction.net under SuperMegaFoxyAwesomeHot2001 (hi, it me). I've tried to improve it, but J K Rowling I ain't, so sorry if this was painful, feel free to leave advice :)


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